The Hamptons
by tessaless
Summary: A series of drabbles, ranging in rating and pairing, about our favorite fabulous four as they sun themselves on the beach over the whole scandalous summer.
1. You've got to be kidding me

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A/N: This is the first of a series of drabbles I have written/ will write about the hot and scandalous summer sure to be had in the Hamptons. As per the usual, seeing as how I am neither Josh Schwartz nor Cecily von Ziegesar... please refrain from taking legal action against me?

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The day was hot, sticky, and long. Blair lay on a lounge chair about twelve feet from the pool, working on her tan. Serena rested below, her bare feet just skimming the edge of the chlorinated water.

"I think I might want to go home," she said, tugging on the strap of her tank top. Blair surveyed Serena, who was wearing nothing but the lacy, spaghetti strap tank. Oh, and a thong. She self-consciously adjusted her own Michael Kors bikini. Damn her insecurities.

"You're kidding, right?" Blair said, knitting her eyebrows and running a fingernail along her left collarbone. Serena wrinkled her nose and shrugged.

"I don't know, B," she mused, "I mean, I'm torn." Blair rearranged her sunglasses and turned one-quarter turn to her right, in order to optimize her sun exposure. "I've been thinking about it, you know, an—"

"Oh, I know," Blair interjected, not altogether kindly. She sat up to take a drink out of her martini and lay back down again, fiddling with the jeweled bobby pin holding back her hair.

"I just, I mean, if he's hooking up with someone, honestly, I don't want to know." Serena tied her damp hair back with an elastic as she spoke. Blair bit on her pinky nail, scraping off the polish. She closed her eyes and tilted her chair up disdainfully. Serena remained cross legged on the tiled floor below.

"Don't worry, S," Blair said, rolling her eyes, "I know for a fact that there isn't a single soul alive who would even consider touching Cabbage Patch." Serena wrapped an arm around her knee and motioned as if she were about to start talking again.

Blair swished her free hand in midair, cutting her off. "Trust me. Not even with a ten-foot pole replete in rubbing alcohol." Blair replaced her drink and closed her eyes again. Case closed. Serena would stay.

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A/N: Here's the deal, sweethearts. You're going to review my drabble so that I know that you actually read it and didn't just mindlessly click on it by mistake while attempting to read whatever obviously more glamorous story comes before and/or after mine on the list. Seriously, one word will suffice. "Cute!" and "Piece-of-shit." are examples of one-word reviews, in case you were confused. :)


	2. 911? I have an emergency

A/N: Another drabble! I've decided that these are probably the best story form for me, seeing as how their length fits in perfectly with my span of attention. Anyways, I did a bit of research for this one, guys, because FANFICTION IS EDUCATIONAL NOW.

For example, I find it highly unlikely that you (unless you live in the general vicinity) were aware that the Montauk Yacht Club Resort is a real hotel located in the real East Hampton. Also, I'm willing to bet that you didn't know that the journey from the UES to Southhampton took a mere 2 hours and 29 minutes. See, that's why you should all read my stories. They're replete with new knowledge.

Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is not mine. Yet.

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A sleek, black stretch limo had been meandering up and down the main resort drag in East Hampton, New York for several hours when the concierge at the Montauk Yacht Club Resort decided to call the police. He didn't know much about terrorists, but he knew that one's image is the only thing that truly matters in the hospitality industry, and he wanted that mobster-esque vehicle off of his roadway.

Within said vehicle, Chuck Bass had splayed himself across the back seat, his hair completely asunder and bare chest sticking to the hot leather.

"But sir," his limo driver implored, tipping the bill of his hat in Chuck's direction, "With all due respect, this is a public beach." Chuck sighed and re-tied the string on his cotton-candy pink and white striped swim trunks.

"I am aware of that fact, yes," he drawled. The driver smiled, kind but crooked, revealing a row of uneven teeth.

"But sir," he repeated, "Wouldn't you rather—"

"I would not." Chuck tucked a translucent blue inner tube underneath his arm and grabbed the matching vinyl beach tote, which contained naught but a bottle of SPF45 and several hundred dollars in cash. "This will do, thank you."

And before the limo managed to screech itself to a halt on the scorching black tar, Chuck was already halfway down the block, bare feet slapping against the roadway.

Several hours later, the chauffer chuckled to himself as he eased his car back into its usual parking spot underneath the Bass' building. He should have known.

Because although the Waldorfs owned private beachfront property on seven different exclusive beaches across the globe, he knew for a fact that they hadn't yet acquired a single meter in _any_ of the Hamptons.

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A/N: In case you were wondering whatever happened with the police call, I honestly have no answer for you. There are several possible options. For example, the line could have been busy, when he called, or Chuck's driver could have taken them on a high-speed rural chase (I like this option best), or perhaps that particular concierge is a bit of a cry-wolf police dialer, and they tactfully decided to ignore him.

Let's hold a vote!

A) Police line busy

B) Bad teeth took fuzz on high speed farm chase (and won!)

C) Resort manager too whiny too often

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	3. You're hot like my sunburn

A/N: So, I wrote this one first. It's my favorite drabble thus far. Appreciate that I appreciate it, okay?

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Her fingertips graze his left knee as she reaches for her iPod, and Nate feels the slightest shiver run down his spine. He smoothes his towel down flat for maybe the twentieth time, brushing the sand off where it itches, miniscule grains lodging in the skin on his back. Serena brushes the hair out of her eyes and crosses her long, suntanned legs.

She smiles at Nate, a megawatt monstrosity with the power to make his heart skip a beat. Nate's missed this—all his vital organs feeling like they're being mashed on high in a blender. It probably isn't healthy.

"I missed this," he says, purposefully avoiding eye contact. Serena adjusts her Cavalli sunglasses, staring out into the frothy blue ocean just beyond their reach. He can hear, faintly, loud guitars and whiny voices floating out from her earphones. Nate runs a hand through his sun-kissed hair, brushing it back towards his ear. He lies back down on the towel, shading his eyes from the glare with the crook of his elbow.

"I missed you," he says, softer. Serena turns towards him, ever so slightly, and Nate squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like a young child, who believes that they cannot be seen when they cannot see you.

But then he feels Serena's hair on his shoulder and her knee on his thigh, and his eyes fly open just as her lips touch his.

Nate is so surprised that he forgets to breathe, thus ruining the moment when he starts coughing several seconds later.

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A/N: my first ever Nate/Serena. Mostly 'cause like five of you requested it of me. Consider it bequeathed. Also, I have many more drabbles just chilling on my computer, waiting to be uploaded... but I will be without my computer for at least a month. So... more in August!

P.S...Shameless plug. Review!


	4. Seagulls simply lack discretion

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A/N: I'm still not Josh Schwartz. But don't worry guys, I'm working on it. Any day now.

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She had just slipped out of her delicate velvet thong sandals and was spreading out her towel on the searing white sand when her cell phone rang. It wasn't Chuck. She answered anyways.

"Blair Bear," a deep, comforting male voice said, distant and cracked from the combination of the white noise waves and the distance between them, "I would love it very much if you could find some time to visit me here next week."

Harold was in Bretagne. Blair loathed Bretagne. Bretagne was tourism. Bretagne was cold.

"Daddy," she then asked, "Are you at the beach right now?" He was. They were exactly opposite one another on the edges of a vast, ruthless ocean. Blair loved the theatrics of that separation imagery. Blair would.

She envisioned Harold on the edge of an ancient stone wall, classic French literature in one hand and a partially consumed _gaufre citron_ in the other, the smell of the crispy waffle mingling perfectly with the salty sea air. Waves crashed against the stone slabs a dozen feet below. Several white nesting seagulls squawking somewhere in the background completed Blair's shining romantic panorama.

Except Blair hated seagulls like she hated Bretagne. Bretagne was high on caloric content and high on stereotypes. (Bonjour: bicycles and baguettes and crepes.) Bretagne was aging Parisian empty-nesters and light, misting rain on her new Tory Burch sweater set. Blair was ninety nine point seven percent sure that Bretagne did not have a Tory Burch.

But she almost said yes anyways. After all, Harold had rented a chateau.

Save for what came out of his mouth next. "Please consider it, precious," he crooned, "If you say you'll come, Roman will be even more ecstatic than I."

Then Blair remembered. She loathed Bretagne.

And to think that she had already been considering the pros and cons of each commercial airline's first class JFK – CDG service.

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A/N: I was in Bretagne! I liked it! It was... quaint. But Blair, oh Blair, would she ever loathe, probably, western France as a whole. A gaufre citron is a waffle with lemon juice squirted all over it. It's tasty. In case you weren't aware. I wouldn't have been, were it not for my obsession with fried batter. Not that you care.

Review if you're feeling generous. I would enjoy it.

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	5. A good shampoo would take care of that

A/N: The usual.

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Serena was tanning, spread eagle on a blue vinyl float, when a long shadow fell across the pristine blue water.

"You're sunburned," she remarked, sitting up straight. The shadow nodded.

"Good observation skills."

"And you were at the beach. You hate the beach." Serena edged forward and hung her slender legs into the pool.

"Actually, sister," Chuck said, adjusting himself in an effort to continue to block her sun, "I only hate the beach because _you_ rubbed sand all over my face, if memory serves." Serena patted spot next to her on the waterproof translucent material in a 'come hither' fashion. She smiled.

"We were six, Chuck, and if I recall correctly, you had just stepped on my pet starfish." Chuck plugged his nose and toed the edge of the adjacent tile, just skimming the water.

"Bud id was dead da whole dime," he said, and jumped, curling his body into a cannon ball. Serena sighed and lay back down on the raft, adjusting her hair to drape into the water.

"Chlorine is bad for hair, you know," Chuck said as he climbed onto the float, tipping the balance of the air within and flooding the surface with water. Serena closed her eyes. "Party with me later?" he asked.

"Actually, I'm meeting Nate tonight." Chuck lowered himself in line with Serena.

"When Nathaniel said he was busy, I didn't know he meant you."

"You could call—," Serena started, but Chuck held his hand out to stop her. The unspoken name dangled between them, heavy and magnetic. "Blair," she whispered, giving him what was clearly intended to be a meaningful look.

"I have plans," Chuck said, a little harsher than was strictly necessary. "Eric and I are going out. I was merely inviting you." He pushed off of the raft with a violent splash and raised himself out of the pool. He left dripping, angry footprints on the cement, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out.

"You know," he said, a vengeful smirk playing at his lips, "You're sunburned, too." Chuck walked through the patio door, slamming the screen behind him dramatically to emphasize his statement. Serena sighed, pushing herself upright so that she could check under her bikini for telltale lines.

There were none present.


	6. Nights like these

A/N: I am not the responsible party.

* * *

'I shouldn't be doing this,' Nate thinks, but the protest is feeble and fruitless—they both knew where this was going to end—they've known it all night.

"We can't be together," Serena had said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. And Nate had asked, "Why?" when he should have just smiled.

She lowered her head then, blonde hair slumping forwards, and muttered excuses of 'More time,' and 'Dan.'

But Nate grabbed a strand, an ethereal, flawless object of beauty, and tucked it away. His hand grazed her cheekbone, she ordered them drinks.

Clichéd hours pass (she starts it, Serena always starts it) and they tumble and roam. The lights are turned out, but the moon always shines.

It's Nate who first wavers, pulling back slightly from their rhythm of hips. He traces his finger along Serena's collar bone, stomach twisting as she shivers beneath his touch. But then she pushes her body, grinding against him, and—oh—Nate always knew he had the self control of a jealous-four-year old. So he starts to give in, reaching for the buttons of Serena's tight, restrictive jeans.

'I shouldn't be doing this,' Nate thinks, but then Serena moans—

* * *


	7. Love is a battlefield

A/N: Let's face it. I'm extremely unlikely to get sued anyways.

* * *

Blair is in the garden, painting her nails and listening to her iPod (taking cues from her soul sister, Pat Benatar) when Serena appears.

"So," she says, and pauses. Serena, standing above her on the terrace of their rented vacation home, nervously shifts from one foot to the other, waiting for Blair to pick out the perfect biting words from her extensive, 2200-worthy vocabulary. "Did your phone run out of battery or something?" Blair plucks the ear buds out, one after the other, and methodically wraps the cord onto her MP3, around and around and around. Serena shakes her head.

"I lost track of time," she says, her voice wavering slightly. Blair gives her a scathing once over—bare feet, grey leggings and a t-shirt she recognized as Nate's. Wait. What?

"You didn't go home last night," Blair continues, trying to catch Serena's eye. "I called Eric this morning." Serena rolls her eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't show, B," she says, "That's why I'm here—to apologize." Blair blows carefully on her fresh varnish and eyes Serena once more.

"So what were you doing?" Serena bites her lip. She opens her mouth then closes it again. Blair looks down and pulls out the grass growing below with the toes of her left feet, depositing it into a small, neat pile below the bench. Serena sits down. Blair doesn't scoot over to make room, leaving her awkwardly perched in the corner.

"I was, um, with Nate," she says, using the 'Blair-I-broke-your-favorite-pair-of-miumiu-flats-last-night-don't-hate-me-please' voice. Blair hates that voice. "And…" Serena trails off and sighs, tugging anxiously at the hem of her shirt—Nate's shirt.

"Doing what?" Blair asked, anger dissipating into reserved curiosity. It was her 'I-don't-yet-know-how-to-react-to-this-destroyal-of-my-property-but-beware,' voice.

"We're honest with each other now, right?" Serena asked, with an 'I-am-preparing-to-voluntarily-skydive-without-a-parachute,' expression playing at her visage.

"As far as I know," Blair said, dipping the brush back into her bottle of white Dior polish and screwing the cap.

"Nate and I had sex last night," Serena calmly states. Blair coughs.

"I'm sorry," she chirps, "I missed that. Could you please repeat the last thing you said for me?" Serena stands up.

"I just thought I should tell you, you know." Blair shakes the small, glass bottle. "So things don't end up like last time." Blair smiles her perfected daughter-of-Eleanor-Waldorf, high society, Why-yes-I-am-the-girl-who-organized-this-entire-charity-function-can-I-help-you-with-anything-else smile.

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, Serena," she says, and reaches for her iPod, releasing the pause button.

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A/N: Thank you, three-odd people who are reading my story :)

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	8. Should've picked Pikachu

A/N: I just now noticed that I have some verb tense problems going in the previous chapter. Hopefully you didn't notice and judge my worth as an individual over it.

* * *

In an effort to escape the scorching afternoon heat, Charles and Nathaniel were in the basement, sporting boxers, playing Super Smash Brothers on Chuck's old GameCube. An unfathomably epic battle raged. Nate had chosen Jigglypuff, (Like always. Chuck was relatively sure that Nate had never picked anyone but Jigglypuff. At least, not since about eighth grade.) Chuck's warrior would be, naturally, Donkey Kong.

"The best offense is a good defense," Chuck muttered, wielding the shiny pink laser sword as Nate obviously and shamelessly abused the C-stick.

"So you know how you asked me to hang out last night," Nate began, accidentally rolling his Pokémon off of a giant cliff. "And then—damn it, Jiggly—I went out with Serena instead."

"I do recall, yes." Nate paused the game, leaving his impressive kung-fu motions suspended mid-assault.

"Well, guess what." Chuck carefully placed his controller down on the coffee table and turned to face Nate.

"You and Serena got naked. Together." He reached over Nate and resumed the game, quickly grabbing his own personage and pummeling on Jigglypuff like a madman.

"How did you know?" Nate asked curiously, returning to the conflict at hand. "But that's not the point. Blair found out and now she's pissed."

"What? Blair?" Chuck glanced up, momentarily distracted, and Nate seized the opportunity, knocking him off the stage with a red and white umbrella.

"I know," he said, taking a gigantic gulp of Mountain Dew, "I thought she was way over me." Chuck gripped the controller harder, if such a thing was even possible, and Nate could see his knuckles turning white on the top. "You only have one life left," he pointed out. Chuck made an odd, wordless grunting noise. "Whatever happened with you two, anyways?"

"With who?" Chuck queried, lightly and cheerfully. Donkey Kong ran in aimless circles, doing anything and everything to avoid Nate's well-directed punches.

"Blair. Who else?" Nate took another large, unpolished guzzle from his soda bottle, finishing it off, and tossed the bottle aside on the hideous olive shag carpeting. Chuck shrugged.

"I don't know what happened. The usual, I guess, it's no big deal." Nate then reached for Chuck's soda bottle, and unscrewed the cap.

"You don't have any Coke le—woah," he said, glancing up at the screen, where Donkey Kong danced in victorious glee.

"Seriously," Chuck scorned, "I can't believe I ever even tolerated that whore," at the same time as Nate, his jaw hanging open, stared at the screen and awed, "That's not possible. Is that even possible? I can't believe you just killed me seven times in less than nine seconds flat."

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A/N: Okay. I hope that made sense. Even if you've never played super smash brothers in your life. In which case, I apologize for the deprived life you currently lead. Nevertheless, please let me know if it didn't make sense / you have any questions / whatever.

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	9. To be or not to be

Blair was wandering down the third street sidewalk, pondering the merits and drawbacks of several different methods of suicide, when a gruff, familiar voice shook her from her reverie (if one could consider the plotting of one's own death a reverie).

"Blair! Blair Waldorf!" the man called, attempting to cup his hands around his mouth before discovering that the confines of his specially-tailored Armani suit would not permit it. Blair spun around, a grimace flashing over her features when she recognized the speaker, but her elite upbringing quickly checked the reaction and replaced it with a dazzling smile.

"Mr. Bass!" she sang out, stomach sinking as he crossed the avenue to better converse with her, "How lovely to see you here! How was your honeymoon?"

"Please, Blair," the CEO of the inordinately successful _Bass Industries_ regally alleged, resting an awkward hand on her shoulder, "Call me Bart. Anyone who inspires such excellent behavior in my son can feel free—no, I insist upon it—drop the title." Blair could feel her smile getting larger, tugging and stretching the skin on her face into unrealistic proportions.

"Right," she said, "Of course… Bart." His hand was still clasping her bare shoulder, which had recently become unbearably itchy.

"Actually," Bart continued, "I haven't spoken to Chuck in quite some time. Our flight just got in this morning, there was quite some delay." Blair's entire body had recently become unbearably itchy. She was relatively sure she could spot hives forming on her left ankle.

"That's so inconvenient," Blair said, in an attempt to say something relevant. Bart finally removed his palm.

"Ah, well, you know." He made some vague mid-air motion with the hand recently extracted from Blair's skin. She could clearly see a slightly sweaty handprint in the residue left behind. "At any rate, Blair, I presume that Italy was unforgettable, and I expect to be seeing you quite soon at our residence, what with Chuck and Serena also living thus."

"Right! Of course, Mr. Bass!" Blair half-crooned. He smiled down at her, patronizing but kind.

"Bart, Blair," he said, "Call me Bart." He then continued with his walk, leaving Blair alone with her contemplations of death and self-destruction—she'd moved on to famous suicidal literary creations. Phaedra and Hamlet were her favorite two. Just, honestly, a chance street encounter with Bart Bass?

'_Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_,' indeed.


	10. We know about your Herpes fund, Chuck

A/N: Guys, I watched the promos. I wasn't going to, but then I did (and oh, man, were they AWESOME.) but now I'm not really sure whether my story has been shoved off the cliff down into the demode, irretrievable depths of AU-ness. The images were kind of flashy and distracting and somewhat difficult to follow. But ah, well.

* * *

Blair Waldorf had just stepped out of the posh 'Glow' salon and spa, re-arranging her newly highlighted hair when she spotted Chuck Bass, three unbelievably suntanned, airbrush-skinny girls in tow. Blair rearranged her dress and patted the blow-out again, an unadulterated grin spreading across her face.

"Chuck!" she bellowed, if one could call Blair Waldorf's yelling as such, "Hey, Chuckkkk," He whirled around, and, upon spotting her, began to smirk wickedly.

"Blair, Blair, Blair," he sneered, extracting his hand from behind one girls' thigh, "So you've finally decided to acknowledge my existence after ignoring all eighty-six of my messages and pretending that I was a hideous piece of _upholstery_ whenever you were—dare I say it—a guest in my home." He gave her a scathing once over. "And you've gone bimbo too, I see," in reference to what she referred to as her 'sun-kissed radiance'. Blair stepped forward, smashing down on his bare left foot violently. Unfortunately, her attire was merely a pair of flowered Juicy Couture sandals—nothing too threatening—but as they say, it's the thought that truly counts.

"What can I say," she practically purred, "I missed you terribly." Chuck found himself rather unable to take her actions in stride. He coughed twice.

"Excuse us please, ladies," he said, running two fingers across Blair's jaw line, "I believe I have some unfinished business to take care of." Blair's eyes flashed as they began to filter away, scowling at her through their gigantic Wal-Mart rip-off shades.

"No need!" she called, "Really. I'll make this quick!" she smiled at Chuck and raised an eyebrow, simultaneously removing his hand from her face as she loudly announced; "I'm required by state law to inform you, Chuck—you really should consider getting tested."

Blair then flipped her hair over her left shoulder and walked back towards the beach before anyone—save for Chuck, who really ought to have known it all along—could figure out exactly what sort of action she'd just taken.

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A/N: Yay! Chuck and Blair! Together. I know you've been waiting :)


	11. Taking 'the third wheel' to a new level

Nate didn't really understand watermelon. He liked it well enough, and it was fruity and full of essential nutrients like Vitamin P or F or J or whatever. But it was, as far as food goes, kind-of spongy, and odd, and he found himself playing with the little spherical scoops that were artfully arranged on his plate instead of actually eating them.

"Have you ever been to Asia?" Serena was asking him perkily, elbows on the table, ready to launch into some sort of story about an oriental temple or a stalking Chinese businessman or who even knows what. Nate liked Serena's stories.

"I don't know," Nate said truthfully. He'd been a bunch of places. They all sort-of blurred together after awhile.

"Yes, you have," Chuck said, tapping his fork against the bottom of his chin. (All of Chuck's watermelon was gone. Nate kind of wished they could trade plates. Chuck could make even something as simple as a between-courses palate cleanser look manly.)

"Really?" Nate asked. Serena gave him a _look_. It read 'Nate-we-talked-about-this-you're-supposed-to-be-ignoring-Chuck-remember.'

"Yeah," Chuck continued, completely unfazed, "In ninth grade. We went together, remember. Extremely attractive Chinese models, remember."

"Oh yeah!" A waiter came and took Nate's unfinished plate of melon and replaced it with a tomato salad. "I thought you were going to bring up that one time we went diving in Australia." He glanced down at his new dish. Tomatoes. Gross. Serena kicked him under the table, hard. "Ow! What was th—oh, right."

"Australia's not in Asia, Nate," Serena said gently.

"I'm not allowed to talk to you anymore," Nate told Chuck, who was still staring dreamily off at the memory of his night with the foreign models. "I'm on a date, apparently."

"So Nate," Serena began, covering his hand with her own, "I was in Thailand last year, right,"

"You must be on a date with me, then," Chuck interjected, loudly enough to drown Serena out and cause heads to turn at several nearby tables. "Because if I recall correctly, which I do, I was invited."

"Nate! You _invited_ him?" Nate, who had been ignoring them both, stopped picking at his salad upon hearing his name and shrugged.

"He wasn't doing anything, so I figured he could join us." Serena rolled her eyes.

"Do you know the meaning of the word 'date'?" Nate shrugged again.

"As a whole," Chuck continued, twirling his fork, (there was still a small piece of lettuce attached) "I really would have to say I enjoyed Asia. Five stars."

"I've invited Chuck along on dates before," Nate said, "A couple times with Blair." Serena raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, well, look at how perfectly that relationship turned out."


	12. Can I Please, Daddy?

A/N: I like pie

* * *

The walls of the basement media room in the Bass' summer vacation home were shaking as a fight scene unfolded in front of the two men, one standing, one lounging on a plush red adjustable couch, who were watching within. A small platter of award-winning pies in assorted flavors rested on the coffee table below them. The younger of the two grabbed several of the aforementioned pastries as he asked the elder, "Can I have a Spyder?" in reference to the glamorous getaway car being used on-set.

"Have you visited or written to any colleges this summer?" Bart asked his son. "Because the schools that you're interested in need to be familiar with who you are and what you have to offer." Chuck, eyes glued to the 007 film playing on the 85" screen in front of him, did not respond. Bart Bass moved his body so that he was standing directly in front of his only offspring, thus blocking his view of the screen.

"Excuse me," Chuck said, his head resting on a large, smiley-face shaped pillow, "you're blocking the television." Unsurprisingly for them both, Bart didn't even budge an inch.

"Charles," he said, "Do you even know where you want to go to school?" Chuck sighed and sat up, the hair on the right side of his head mussed and out of place.

"I don't know, father. That all depends." Chuck rubbed his eyes, dry from staring at a brightly lit screen for too long in the dark. "Where are you buying me admission?" Bart smiled, a facial expression he hid in the closet so often that it seemed odd on him—he looked drunken or drugged.

"Actually, Chuck, I'm not getting you in anywhere." Chuck's eyes, which had been closed as he leaned back on the couch, flew open. "I just got the mailing on your test scores—I suspect you've cheated, you normally do far worse." Chuck vaguely remembered the token black kid he'd paid off on his SATs. Bart continued, "Son, it's time for you to learn about life. I refuse to pay for, speak about, or aid you in any form on applying or getting into college."

"You're talking about it now," Chuck retorted, smirking. Bart clapped twice, and several florescent lights switched automatically on above their heads, the projection screen he was standing directly in front of rolling back into the ceiling.

"Yes, Charles," Bart said, "I am." He turned around and began walking towards the exit of the Bass' summer estate movie theatre.

"You can't be serious," Chuck called towards his retreating back. Bart paused.

"Have you ever once known me to jest?"

"You can't possibly mean it," Chuck moaned again, sinking back down onto the cushion. He lay motionless for several moments before shrugging and clapping twice, the lights dimming out and James Bond blasting from the surround sound once again.

* * *

A/N: Yay! Bonding time with daddy!


	13. We're too classy to press charges anyway

A/N: So this one's a little different, a little longer. And a little more graphic, with slightly stronger language. So just to warn you a little.

* * *

If anyone bothered to look in the local police file on the subject of July 31, 2008, they would find several drastically different accounts of what was obviously the same mid-range common, statutory and civil law crime. But all stories begin the same.

A high-pitched, semi-recognizable shriek of "Fuck awff," resonated through Hazel's basement as throngs of people began to drift towards the south-west corner.

"What the hell is going on," Nate wondered aloud, staring in awe at the scene unfolding in front of him. He pushed his way through the crowd, all the faded, wasted people circling around to see Blair, who was thrown up against a wall by a strong, familiar blond kid, pushing fruitlessly against his chest as he shoved his body into hers, breaking about seventeen personal bubble rules at once.

Where was Serena? How the hell was he supposed to know what to do now? He had to save Blair, obviously. But what if she was dating that guy or something?

And—oh, shit, was that Carter Baizen? Did he just stick his hand up her shirt? Nate was most definitely not going to let the likes of Carter Baizen get away with practically raping Blair. (Even if she certainly wouldn't remember it tomorrow. It never bode well to take chances with Blair. And her obnoxiously large personal bubble.) Nate rolled up his sleeves in preparation. (And where was Hazel anyways? It's her party. Shouldn't she have like security guards or something in addition to a killer DJ?)

And just as he was about to go beat the friggin' snot out of that—that low life, well, someone else beat him to it.

"Did you just lick her _armpit_?" Chuck Bass asked; face red and pink oxford askew. Carter didn't respond. "That's my girlfriend, asswipe."

"I'm not your girlfriend," Blair slurred, color rising in her own cheeks, "anymore." (According to some accounts, Blair at this point throws her drink, glass and all, at Chuck, with dead aim towards his head. Others say she threw it at Carter, but missed, unfortunately hitting Chuck in the process. Carter claims that Blair Waldorf never once touched any sort of alcoholic beverage all night.)

Either way, Chuck sucker punches Carter next—breaking two fingers in the process. So Carter kicks Chuck, in the shins and below the belt, and Nate steps in (Nate always steps in), using just his sheer girth to keep them at bay.

"Come on," he says, grabbing a hold of Chuck, who was nursing his hand and his crotch simultaneously, as Blair takes that very moment to blow chunks on the carpet and stumble off to the bathroom to puke more, or possibly cry. And—God—where was Serena? But then some drunk ass, Kevin, or maybe it was Nick, yells "Fuzz!" so he pulls Chuck out the back, high-tailing it out to the bushes next door where Penelope, wearing nothing but a thin, expensive silk shift, is already hiding, bottle of vodka in one hand, bright yellow heels in the other.

"Hey Nate," she purrs, sidling up next to him as he instructs Chuck to bend his fingers at each joint, slowly, carefully.

'It's decided,' he thinks, shaking his head at Penelope's offered lipstick-smeared bottle, 'this probably does officially win the award for Worst Party Ever.'

* * *

A/N: Nothin' like some good ol' pretty-boy fighting, eh?


	14. The ultimate morning after moment

A/N: Alright, here we go. Drabble length. The ultimate morning after, in my opinion.

* * *

"I got a ticket," Blair says. Her eyes are bloodshot, and from the way she's holding her head up Chuck can tell she's still nursing a hangover.

"I didn't." Chuck holds his left hand up, swollen and bruised, for Blair to see. "I hope Carter did, though." Blair lets out a low, hissing sympathy noise at the sight of his injury.

"Carter got arrested." She reaches over and gently runs the pad of her pointer finger along his knuckles. "You really should see a doctor or something, Chuck." He pulls back his hand, reaching for the remote to switch off the TV.

"Someone's coming this afternoon," he says, turning to face Blair. "But why are you here?" he asks, running his own thumb and finger across the hem of her green linen shorts as she sits down besides him.

"Because," she whispers, grabbing a fistful of his hair, swinging her bare leg over his lap to straddle him. Chuck coughs. Blair kisses him, hard, shoving his body down onto the beige leather monstrosity. "Your sofa smells like a stale cigar," she says. "Disgusting."

* * *

A/N: Blair's ticket was for underage drinking. But Carter might have to register as a sex offender! Which is too bad, because I actually like Carter.


	15. Could you pass the granulated sugar?

A/N: I love this scene. I absolutely, seven million percent love this scene. Please try to also love it, for my sake.

* * *

"I think I missed something here," Nate whispered to Eric, quadruple-taking the two gorgeous teenagers furiously making out on the old leather couch across the room. Eric didn't even hazard a glance from his spot at the kitchen island counter, methodically stirring several packets of sweet'n'low into his tall glass of iced tea.

"Uh, you didn't miss much, actually," he whispered back conspiratorially, bringing the full glass to his lips. "They've been like this all morning. But would you like some tea?"

"I would love some," Nate replied. He glanced up at the digital clock above the oven. 11:23. "But no, I'm pretty sure they hated each other less then ten hours ago." He leaned his elbows on the cool marble counter top and watched his friends thoughtfully as they groped passionately at each other. "Not that they haven't done the whole 'secret relationship' thing before," he added, mostly to himself. Eric was by that point engrossed in the daily newspaper crossword.

"I'm just glad they're both still fully clothed," he remarked, as Nate squirted a lemon wedge into his own glass of the translucent amber liquid.

An awkward groaning noise filtered across the room from the sofa, followed by an incredibly awkward silence from the kitchen, where Eric and Nate tried not to look at each other for fear of dissolving into not-exactly-silent laughter. Nate replaced his glass on the table, ice cubes clinking. Eric cleared his throat.

"You don't happen to know a five-letter-word for 'utter destruction,' do you?" Nate scratched the back of his neck. The seconds ticked by audibly.

"Uh, I don't think so."

* * *

A/N: So, interestingly enough, I kept getting incredible, barely-deniable urges to have Eric say, "So, how 'bout dem Packers." I just... feel like... that phrase was needed. But Eric wouldn't _do_ that. Because, chances are, Eric doesn't even know who the Packers are. I hope all of you do. But now the scoreboard looks like this.

Self-control: 1

Wisconsin pride: 0


	16. I could tell that you could tell

A/N: I would like to recommend a multimedia enrichment option for this chapter. If you happen to by anywhere near the song "Shake It" by Metro Station; put it on. It's what I've been imagining as the perfect inside-of-Nate's-head-while-he-is-on-the-beach music. Which means that of course I was listening to it all day. Because it's raining by me. So instead of going to the beach myself... I've been writing Nate's head again. sigh.

* * *

Nate loved sand. Nate loved sand practically as much as he loved days that were sunny, warm and clean. And, well, the amazing combination of sand and sun and physical activity he was feeling had him riding a gigantic high that was so much more than any substance he'd ever tried.

He felt so great, in fact, that he could very nearly parallel any sun/exercise/sand moment with what he had begun to refer to as 'The Serena Pull,' which was that weird, light-headed sort of way he got whenever he spent too much time or got too close to Serena and his gravity shifted and he couldn't talk right (not that he was great shakes with words to start with) and everything got clumsy and stupid.

So Nate looked over at Serena and waved. She waved back, pulling back her Louis Vuitton aviators, from the lounge chair she'd set up on the sidelines of the volleyball court. Nate swelled a little with pride; his team had made the playdowns this summer.

"Hey Archibald," his friend Jeremy called from behind him—the current server, "Get in the game!" Nate shrugged, but dutifully turned back to the court. His shoulders and back felt warm, in the overpowering summer sunshine. He couldn't seem to wipe the grin off of his face. Nate nodded at a couple of guys he knew on the other team, one of whom smiled back. (The other kid rolled his eyes and tried not to pay too much attention to Nate's bronzed, golden-man-bangs-ed, lithe physique. Not that Nate would have ever been able to gleam that little fact.)

They were totally going to win this match. Even if they only had five because no one had gotten around to bailing out Carter yet. No big deal.

Jeremy let the ball go and it sailed gracefully over the net. The smiley kid Nate knew from St. Jude's smashed it back—and Nate dove, missing the volleyball by mere inches. The sand he so loved betrayed him a little, fanning out over his face—up his nose, into his eyes—he scraped it off of his tongue with his perfect teeth, cringing at the taste.

"Serena?!" he vaguely heard someone he knew call disbelievingly, ten or fifteen feet to the left of his left ear. Nate stood up, his chest red and chaffed.

"Sorry guys," he said, shaggy head hanging regretfully. "I'm usually so on." His teammates shrugged, eyeing his new rash. No envy there. Nate's turn to serve. It hit the net. Nate never hit the net. He glanced over at Serena again, hoping she hadn't been watching his latest fumble, but luckily she was deep in conversation with Dan.

Wait.

Dan was in the Hamptons? Nate rolled his eyes, mentally chastising himself for getting so offtrack. Volleyball. Semi-finals. Okay.

But then the siren rang, the storm siren, calling surfers off the water. The referee blew his whistle. Clouds swept over the previously immaculately blue sky, and beachgoers began to trample back, back to their beach side resorts or Audi or Lexus convertibles. Nate sighed. The game was called off, and they'd lost. Five points to seven.

And just like that, his team was out of competition. For good.


	17. Let's just rockpaperscissors for it

Dan sat, forehead resting on his hands, on the Bass' front terrace, trying to come up with a suitable excuse for just _being_ there, after what had happened at the beach yesterday. He could still hear Serena's pinched, overly controlled voice as she tried to explain why she just couldn't take him back, even though a part of her wanted to, even though they were somehow meant together, etcetera. Until he heard two voices that weren't coming from his head, two voices he knew only too well.

"What could _he_ possibly be doing here?" Chuck scorned as he walked down the red brick driveway. Blair ignored him and went straight for the obvious victim. Dan sat up bravely.

"Hey there, low rent," she said, flicking Dan in the soft spot on the side of his temple. "Does Serena know that you're here?" Her smile was glowing. Not that Dan was fooled into thinking that Blair would act legitimately hospitable or anything. Ugh.

"Here but not here," he admitted, scratching his head and shifting uncomfortably. "We talked on the beach yesterday." Blair perched herself next to him, legs crossed, pointed Gucci heel ever-so-firmly pressing upon his bare calf.

"Okay. Time to leave now." She dug her shiny white fingernails into the skin on his elbow.

"Ow! What? You don't live here. Serena does. I have every right to talk to her." Chuck, leaning against a muscled naked Roman marble statue, pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.

"I live here." Superiority was strikingly evident in Chuck's voice. Dan eyed him wearily. His white, rolled-up Capri's. His oddly gelled hair.

"Of course you do." Blair had still not released his elbow, which was starting to throb uncomfortably. He shook it violently. "Get off. I'm leaving." He swung around, marching back towards the gate, purposely stomping on the flawless lawn and landscaping whenever possible. He could hear a low chuckle in the background, which he assumed belonged to Serena's dearest and newest brother. Damn them both. Damn them both to hell.

"Hey, hold up, Cabbage Patch!" Blair's clear, ringing voice called out behind him. He glanced back dutifully. She looked like a doll, red lipstick, curls and a cocktail dress at eight-thirty in the morning. Who _does_ that? Dan paused. "Let's do breakfast." Blair took three steps towards him. "We need to go over a few things. My treat."

Dan rolled his eyes, and kept walking, out the gate and down the impossibly long, impossibly wealthy street. Go over a few things? Yeah, right. Over his dead body. (Not that Chuck would mind that, at all.) They couldn't keep him from Serena forever.

* * *

A/N: Don't panic yet, guys. Dan!Bashing to come. Maybe. Actually, I haven't decided yet. Believe it or not, I write these babies on the fly. (Yeah, I don't know how they turn out so beautifully either? Perhaps an extreme excess of raw talent?)

Viewer input on the topic?


	18. I'm not as think as you drunk I am

Irrelevant A/N: I'm going to New York tomorrow! Sweet. I've never been to New York. Guess who of my favorite characters / famous people live in NYC? (Although a quick google search of "Chace Crawford home address" yielded no real results. Pity.)

* * *

His mother had mentioned dinner guests, which, knowing his mother, could have been anyone, so Nate was visibly relieved when Blair and Eleanor Waldorf rang at the front door.

"Straighten your tie," his mother said, and then, "Eleanor! What excellent timing, I just got our new upholstery in; you simply must come and judge." And with that, the two of them wandered off towards the great room, leaving Nate alone with Blair. Her hair was loose and she looked really tan in her white, flowing dress. And really hot.

"Hey," he said, but Blair kissed him on the cheek, dangerously close to his lips, and chirped, "Natie! I've missed you!" Wait. Something wasn't exactly right. Nate tensed up, shoulders shrugging together underneath the discomfort of his suit coat.

"Aren't you mad at me?" he asked, confused. Nate was often confused, especially when dealing with Blair.

"No," Blair said, a genuine smile playing at her elegant features. "I've _missed_ you." Nate smiled, too. Blair was happy, Nate was happy. (More like: anyone was happy, Nate was happy. But that included Blair, too.)

"I've… missed you too." She followed him out to the patio and they sat together on one of the big swings. "What's got you in such a good mood?" he teased, giving her shoulder a nudge with his own. Blair responded with a light, "An old friend dropped in this morning," and then, "Let's get drunk, Natie." Nate happily obliged, whipping them both up some fruity, alcoholic mixers. (If by whip up, you mean asking the cook to create, blend, and serve them, which Nate certainly does.)

"Did you know Dan came up here yesterday?" he asked, later, as they rocked on the swing, watching the last rays of sun disappear over the horizon and the fireflies began to stake their claim over the warm July night.

"I had no idea." Blair uncrossed her legs, resting her knee against Nate's. He felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. Blair was warm. But Nate persevered.

"He said he wants Serena back. What if she says yes?" Blair's side part was falling forwards sloppily. She pushed her hair back behind her ear, leaving an unnoticed accidental trail of mascara across her cheek.

"Can I have another, Natie?" Blair pointed to the several empty glasses on the table in front of them. Nate frowned. Blair hadn't answered his question.

"I don't know," he said. "I heard you got a drinking ticket last week." Blair smiled and leaned in, her breath warm and kind of gross over his face.

"Who's going to ticket me here?" Blair's voice, sugar-coated in his ear, sent back floods of memories Nate wasn't sure he was ready to face just yet. He swallowed, the nervous lump in his throat refusing to disappear. She hooked her pinky finger in his collar and ran the nail along his hot skin. Nate shifted uncomfortably in his seat, creaking loudly; the swing had come down to an absolute standstill.

"Blair?" Eleanor Waldorf's disembodied voice floated out to them through the pager over next to the sliding glass doors. "We're leaving." Blair disentangled herself quickly, either forgetting to or maybe on purpose not saying good-bye. Nate could hear her heels clicking across the kitchen tile, and he laid back, body stretched across three cushions until he saw the telltale sign of headlights driving away down the road.

The whole thing left him restless, oddly turned on and more confused than ever.

* * *

A/N: I know; don't be mad. I can't help it. I'm sadistic and passive-aggressive like that. No one is ever happy for more than three chapters in a row.


	19. For the record, you had to beg, okay?

A/N: Do you guys ever take a story in a direction that leaves you, so to speak, up shit creek with your characters. That happened to me when I decided that Blair was mad about Serena and Nate sexin' it. And then later, after putting it up on the internet, I was like. Ah. Oops. Blair hates everyone now. Who's she going to interact with? But it was on the internetzzz already, so I couldn't take it back.

* * *

"I got drunk and flirted a lot with Nate yesterday." Serena glanced up from her waffles to see Blair on the other end of the island counter, spooning herself a yogurt. Serena frowned.

"What's your point, B?" Blair debated this.

"I would have tried to, you know, seduce him, but he just seemed really confused and mildly unwilling." Serena's frown deepened.

"I don't know if Chuck would have been too happy," she said. Blair sprinkled diced fruit meticulously on her parfait.

"Oh, good. You accept my apology." Serena raised a pointed eyebrow, which Blair pointedly ignored.

"Well," Serena allowed, "I'm glad you forgive me, at least." Blair took two bites of her yogurt.

"Okay. Let's go shopping now."


	20. This basement is an obvious fire hazard

A/N: I was in Grand Central Station this morning. :) It looks like it does on TV. (Of course.)

* * *

Nate could feel the painful give of the skin inside his lower lip as he finally broke through and tasted the blood as it pooled on his tongue. He'd been chewing his way nervously all night. One of the scented candles he'd lit on the table next to the couch flickered out, and he knocked it as he reached for the matches to re-light the flame—wax spilling over onto the polished antique wood.

He cussed as it flowed down over the underside of his wrist, burning the pulse point. Nate stood up, light-headed and blood rushing, to find a towel to wipe up the mess.

"Sorry," he said, reaching across the placemats to touch Serena's hand, but Serena was busy texting with both hands, so he just let his own hang down, pausing mid-motion.

Nate walked into the bathroom, dabbing at the skin on his lip with some toilet paper, splashing water on his face and wiping it down with the same paper, inadvertently causing a streak of blood down his chin. He rubbed furiously at his stubble with his knuckles, stomach flipping and turning.

Serena still didn't seem to even notice that he'd put this all together by himself, for her. Nate played with her hair absently (she had such pretty hair) as she continued to shake and tap at the shag rug nervously.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, wrapping his arm around her waist. Serena shifted in her place, tucking her feet down in underneath her body. She leaned her head back against Nate's broad, warm shoulder. His stomach relaxed minutely, unclenching itself by a hundredth of a centimeter.

"It's complicated," she murmured against his skin, her earring poking uncomfortably into the side of his chest. Nate frowned.

"Can it wait?" He kissed the side of her mouth carefully, organs sloshing about inside, caught between his ribcage and backbone. His stereo chose that exact moment to stop playing, CD running out of time—the awkward silence ensuing causing his palms to sweat what seemed to be gallons as Nate surreptitiously wiped his free hand against the side of his khakis. Serena froze, hesitating.

"I don't know, Nate," she allotted, her voice cracking, yet somehow gentle. "I don't want to do anything either of us will regret here." She disentangled herself slightly from his grip, reaching for a sip of the wine he'd carefully selected as the best his mother most likely wouldn't miss.

"I thought we were past regrets." Nate could hear the whine creeping into his voice. Serena stood up, pocketing her cell phone and reaching for her purse.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Nate could tell she meant it. She leaned in to kiss him, but Nate rolled slightly to the side.

"Maybe you should go," he told her, more harshly than he normally would. Nate adored—adores Serena. Nate doesn't know how to be harsh.

But then Serena left. And Nate closed his eyes. And he did _not_ cry.


	21. Nate reminds us of a 5000 piece puzzle

A/N: So this is, like several other chapters, faaaaaaaarrrrr too long to be a drabble. But I don't care. And neither should you.

* * *

A series of loud raps on the door to his room at the Bass' summer home startled Chuck, who was leaning over the ancient mahogany vanity towards the also-vintage mirror on the wall, attempting several different methods of artfully mussing with the tips of his gelled-back hairstyle.

"I need help," the voice from the hallway demanded. Chuck smiled with recognition the realization of just who his late night called could be.

"And I'm always at your service," he trilled. Chuck yanked open the door with a flourish and ushered Serena into his room, complete with the grandest of bows as he motioned for her to sit on his unnecessarily luxurious, king-sized bed. Then he suddenly dropped the act.

"All-right sister, what problem could possibly cause such theatrics so as to leave your dramatically running to my side at two in the morning?"

Chuck flopped down onto the bed beside Serena in a rather undignified matter. She took a deep breath.

"Can you be serious about this?" she asked, lying down on the red comforter as well. Chuck rolled his eyes.

"Is this about Danny-boy? Because I'm already on it. He will stalk you no more." Serena punched his arm.

"No. Chuck. Please say you didn't," Serena cringed, a slight edge of hysteria entering her voice.

"I didn't," Chuck lied. "But what is all this about, then? Did you kill someone else or something?" Serena laughed once, a loud, echoing sound that, once faded, threw them into a somber atmosphere.

"No," Serena said, lowering her decibel lever significantly. "I think I'm falling in love with Nate." Chuck rolled his eyes.

"You're not the commitment-phobe on this bed right now. This is a problem how?"

"Wait your turn, Chuck." Chuck rolled his eyes again exaggeratedly. Serena ignored him. "But I'm in love with Dan. And Dan told me two days ago that," Serena paused to take a breath, "that he finally forgives me."

"Oh." Chuck sat up, leaning himself against the headboard. "Well. Whose heart are you going to break? I'm naturally inclined towards Brooklyn, of course." Serena, flipped over onto her stomach, resting her head on her elbow.

"If I knew, would I be asking for help from you?" Chuck smirked. He balled his two hands into fists and shoved them both behind his back, making a grand show of mixing them up.

"Okay. Nate's the empty one. Pick a hand, any hand…" Serena rolled her eyes.

"This one," she said, attempting to humor Chuck. He pulled his left hand out and opened it. His thumb was underneath the fist. Full.

"Looks like the fates vote for the fairytale romance. Dan as princess, of course." Chuck shrugged and spread out, mimicking Serena's position on his bed.

"We both know you cheat," she pointed out.

"I personally vote for Nate," Chuck countered, "So it's a moot point." He shifted his chin from one arm to the other, mirroring Serena instead. "But all joking aside, everything will work out fine. What you need to do is make this about you, not about them."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"Don't give a second thought to Nate's reaction, or Dan's reaction, or what anyone besides you will think about any of this and just do what _you_ want. Think about how you feel and everything will probably clear itself up."

"I don't know if I can do that, Chuck. It's selfish, and I have t—," Chuck waved a dismissive hand in her direction, cutting her off.

"Dan would be fine. His 'loving family and friends' will help him through this. Besides, he dumped you first. He knows you might not forgive _him_, if you would consider that for a moment." Serena frowned.

"But what about Nate, then?"

"Who do you think you're talking to, Serena?" Chuck asked, voice hard, "Blair and I can pick up the pieces there. The many, many pieces. We can handle it. Nate will be okay, eventually, if that's what you decided to do. But no decision is easy. Think of _you_, here. Everything else is just reactionary."

"Selfish," Serena insisted, but Chuck could tell that her resolve was weakening.

"No," he corrected, "_smart_." Chuck gave his new sister an appraising look. "But I already know what you're going to do. You just need to figure it out yourself." Serena yawned. Chuck yawned.

"Yawning is contagious," she said. "But I already knew, really. I just… ugh… I don't want to hurt anyone." Chuck stretched his arms over his head, grabbing his left wrist with his right hand.

"Too late."


	22. Let's hit up those street corners!

A/N: Two things. I don't mean to accuse any designers of using slave labor. Let's just assume they don't! (I tried to like, research high fashion brands that use slave labor, you know, so I could be all correct and stuff, but all I could come up with was J.C. Penny and Walmart and other big boxers like that. So I guess that's one reason I can't afford anything awesome, haha.)

Secondly, the original idea (which was very different) for this little installment came from **Who Needs Coordination Anyways.**

* * *

A disgustingly amped up version of elevator music floated through the scene in the fifth floor of Bergdorf's on 5th and 59th in Manhattan.

"I like this," Blair Waldorf announced, clutching a patterned brown Susana Monaco spaghetti strap dress. "For you." Serena turned around, a pair of fire-truck red mouse-face Marc by Marc Jacobs flats under her left arm and True Religion Jeans in the other hand.

"I like that!" she exclaimed, reaching for Blair's dress, dropping her flats in the process. "Oops. Those are for you." Blair laughed.

"You know," she mused, "you'd think I would be offended by the idea of wearing a rodent. But these are surprisingly cute." Except then she caught sight of the jeans and cringed. "But, ugh, are you serious about those? They've got rhinestones. How low-class can you get?" Serena smiled, unperturbed.

"True Religions have, you know, funky style." Blair rolled her eyes and perched on a lime mod chair, to try on the mousey flats.

"A shopping day in the city was definitely on the agenda. Good call. And these are weird." Blair made a vague, undefined gesture in the direction of the flats.

"You know," Serena remarked, feeling the fabric of the Susana Monaco carefully, "I don't know if I could buy this. This was one of the designers using slave labor, or so I heard." Blair stood up, leaving the Marc by Marc leather strewn across the stool.

"Where did you hear that?" Blair traipsed past Alice + Olivia, aiming for the escalator down to what she referred to as 'Real Fashion.' Serena, sundress slung across her shoulder, scurried behind.

"Well, Vanessa and I were talking, right,"

"Ew," Blair commented. Serena poked her in the back with a hanger.

"And she had me read this article about child labor laws in India and Bangladesh, and that sometimes kids that are like, you know, ten or eleven work like, ninety-hour weeks and only make like, thirteen cents an hour!" They stepped off the escalator, making their way towards the bags.

"Boring," Blair said, absentmindedly running her fingers along a fringed purple Prada. "Did Van-whore-a also mention the little fact that if you _don't_ buy from those brands, they refuse to feed the small children?" Serena laughed.

"You just made that up." She held the dress up again against her body, flowing and complimenting her skin tone perfectly.

"Irrelevant," Blair informed her, tone flippant. "I like that dress. Give it to me. It's a present." Serena accidentally knocked over a stack of Burberry perfume while they walked towards the cash register. She bent down to pick them back up, but Blair grabbed her hand, dragging her towards the cash register.

"You really should try being nice sometime, B," Serena mumbled and then, "If you give me that dress, I'll burn it."

"Irrelevant," Blair said again, whipping out her Visa, "The money still goes to the tyrants."

* * *

A/N: GUYS I WANT THOSE MARC BY MARC FLATS SOOOOO BAD. BUT THEY'RE 295 USD. BUT I _WAAAANNNNTTTT_ THEM.


	23. Hypothetically, this doesn't even happen

Whenever life got a little too complicated, inflated or dramatic for Nate to wrap his head around, he always seemed to end up running. Through Central Park, around the track in the health club, down the beach, it didn't really matter. He would lace up his Asics, rifle through his iPod for a suitable playlist and take off flying—slowing down if and only for immediate danger, heart palpitations and, of course, red lights in the city.

His friends knew better than to catch him in one of these moods, which is one of the reasons Nate left his cell phone behind—he didn't like to vent on, yell at, or disappoint people, so the temptation of communication was better locked away. No one interfered.

Except, apparently, a certain individual by the name of Daniel Humphrey. The fateful incident occurred approximately two and a half blocks south of the Main street Starbucks in Easthampton, NY at around 7:46 a.m. Nate was running. Nate had been running long enough to be on a second, third, and finally fourth wind—seventy-two minutes, to be exact.

"Nate!" Dan had called, latte in one hand and a cream cheese bagel in the other, "Hey, man!" Nate made the mistake—it was an honest mistake, anyone could make it—of turning around to see who was talking. He stopped cold.

"Hi," he panted, heart racing in his chest, threatening to burst from his ribcage. Nate pulled his right foot back behind his back and bent forwards towards the ground, feeling the glorious release of the hamstring stretch. He waited. Dan jumped on the pause.

"I saw you in the volleyball tourney the other day," he chatted, running his hand over his recently buzzed hair. "Nice job, I never got to tell you."

Bang-bang-bang-bang. Nate's pulse sped through his fingertips, neck and forehead. He could feel the movement of his blood. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He shifted to the other leg, mirroring the stretch on the left. The feeling subsided.

"Thanks," Nate said. He paused and locked his silver iPod shuffle. Dan caught sight of the movement and smiled.

"Are those any good?" he asked, "I almost bought one, but you know, I didn't want to sell my soul to Steve." Nate switched from stretching his hamstring to his groin, lunging to one side, hand on the sidewalk.

"Who's Steve?" For some odd reason, Nate found the sight of Dan infuriating. Dan wasn't running. Dan wasn't interrupted on his morning runner's high, trying to forget about life, because Dan didn't have anything to forget in his perfect little morning coffee break life. Dan was standing there, stupid grin on his face, lording his stupid intelligence, his _integrity_ over him. Maybe Nate actually hated Dan. It's not like he wouldn't deserve it or anything. And then Dan had the nerve to laugh. Loudly.

"Nevermind," he said, waving his hand obnoxiously in Nate's face. "But I do want to apologize." Nate wondered for what.

"For what?" Nate asked, noting the fact that his heart had finally relaxed. Maybe that last 3k had been too much. Maybe he should stop running, and own up to last night. Maybe he should call Serena and apologize, for coming on too strong. Maybe it was too soon to use the four-letter-word, like he'd been planning on, before she bolted. Maybe.

"For, you know," Dan said, taking a large impolite, obnoxious-as-hell bite out of his bagel, a dot of cream cheese still stuck on his nose, "Interrupting." Nate didn't say 

anything at all. He honestly could care less if Dan was sorry for interrupting his run. It was for the best, anyways. But Dan kept on talking.

"I mean," he said, dairy product still evident on his visage, "If I had known that you and Serena were together, I probably wouldn't have come all the way here to try to win her back. It's probably messed you guys up, at least a little." Oh. Interrupting _that_. Dan sighed, as if he were making some sort of vast, unparalleled self-sacrifice.

Nate mentally debated punching him. He knew he shouldn't. Chuck punched people. Nate stopped people from punching. HAnd Dan still kept on talking. "I would take it back, but, you know, the cat's already out of the bag there." Nate didn't know any words for this situation. Something like this had never been covered in school, with his father, or with Blair.

Dan, who evidently lacked the self-preservation gene, just _kept_ _on talking_. "Besides," he said, as if this excused any improper behavior entirely, "I love her."

For someone like Dan, this probably did excuse any improper behavior entirely. But Nate knew he was better than that. His emotions were bubbling towards the surface. Nate never became truly comfortable with his emotions, and he really preferred them squashed down below the surface, which, honestly, had been why he'd gone running at 6 a.m. in the first place.

So he punched Dan, who definitely deserved it, fist connecting with jaw in a sick, resonating thudding motion. Dan ended up on the sidewalk. Several passerby stared.

"I do, too," Nate said, and began to walk away, temper raging, intentions set. But then he paused. And sighed. Nate didn't know what just happened. He's not that kid. Never was, never will be.

Nate turned around and marched right back in Dan's direction, reaching down with a hand, wordlessly, to help him back up on his feet.

"Well, this sucks," Dan said, hand clutching the back of his bleeding head. Nate was inclined to agree.


	24. No one does dysfunction like us, darling

A/N: **Dramatic Sigh.** I watched some more season 2 clips. I am now officially, unceremoniously, unfortunately, but not unexpectedly writing AU.

I haven't decided when to end this yet. I think right before the US season 2 premiere sounds good. Yes?

NOW ALL I HAVE TO DO IS DECIDE WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN. (I've changed my mind about seven times already. Persuade me, dear readers!)

* * *

The door to Chuck's room burst open without a knock, without a forewarning, and without any sort of permission granted. The contents of the room lay askew in the king-sized bed, eyes trained on the Olympic swimmer whose spandex-clad, wet body filled the screen.

He didn't even look up when Blair Waldorf called his name. (And she was using _that tone_. No one ignored Blair Waldorf when she spoke in _that tone_.)

"Hold on, doll," he said, motioning with a finger for her to wait. "Michael Phelps is about to break a world record for gold medals or something." Blair carefully removed her heels, leaving them neatly besides the bed and crawled under the covers as well, shimmying up behind him.

"Ugh, I can't believe you just called me 'doll.'" She wound her fingers all through his hair, aimlessly doodling on his scalp with the pads of her fingers. Chuck sighed just the slightest, in a contented sort-of way. Blair pulled tightly, yanking his head towards her face with obvious force. Chuck swore exquisitely.

"What are we, thirty?" she whispered, teeth grazing the side of his ear. Turn off the half-naked men. I have a confession to make." The object of her violence glanced back at her determined expression and couldn't help the chuckle escaping his lips. Blair whipped out the other hand and painfully entwined that one in his hair as well.

"I'm all yours," Chuck returned, switching off the seventy-two inch screen with a clap of his hands. "I seem to attract confessions like honey and bees these days." Blair removed her hands from his greasy motif, conspicuously wiping them on his silken-pajama-clad thigh.

"You know, your hair's about two inches long. Exactly what percentage of the gel tube did tonight's style require? Not necessary." she informed him, and then, after a deep breath, "we have the exact same character flaw, you know."

"I don't have any fl—,"Chuck began, at the same time as Blair said, "Granted, you have several other flaws as well." She leaned into his back again, running her nails in-between the buttons of his shirt and across his chest.

"I tried to bed Nate the other day, you know." Chuck's lack of reaction at this news was unsettling, though unsurprising. Instead of responding to the jibe, he turned to kiss Blair on the cheek, snaking his hand up her pencil skirt as well.

"I've never tried to bed Nate," Chuck said. Blair wriggled away from his teasing fingers up her thigh.

"Stop," she told him, a tinge of frustration in her steady demeanor. "You're not mad. Why?" Chuck laughed, working his hand further along the edge of Blair's lace and silk panties.

"I don't see how this flaw relates to me, sweetheart," he crowed. Blair reached down between her legs and pushed his wrist away, snapping her knees together.

"For example, you had the nerve to seduce your best friend's girlfriend. That's twisted." Chuck reached around underneath the covers until he found one of Blair's hands, grabbing it with both of his own.

"Twisted yes, but not true. You seduced me, in all technicality. This is a confession how?" Blair rolled her eyes.

"Turn the muscled men back on TV," she snapped, fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. "You're an ass, Chuck." Slipping her heels back on, Blair Waldorf slammed the door behind her as she fled from his presence.

"You already knew that, Waldorf," Chuck called behind her to the resonating thud of the doorframe. "It's why you can't stay away from me."


	25. Sun exposure leads right to skin cancer

A/N: There are characterization problems present. I know.

* * *

"Who let you in?" Chuck asked, mid-sip of a smoothie, as he walked past the pool and spotted Nate, floating aimlessly, body hung over the blue vinyl flotation device.

"No one," Nate said, frowning. "Do I look sunburned to you? I've been out here since about nine this morning." Chuck checked his watch and sighed, kicking off his leather thong sandals and splashing his feet over the edge. He faced Nate, who continued to stare up at the cloudless blue sky.

"Other then the mention of our apparently lackluster security team—you've been in my pool for seven hours, Nathaniel." Nate sat up, shielding his eyes against the glowing sun.

"That's exactly my point," he said, wiping his wet hair sideways in order to see Chuck, "Did I get sunburned?" Chuck removed his feet from the pool and stood up, dragging a cushioned lawn chair towards the tile.

"No," he sighed. "Golden as always." Nate flopped back down onto the raft apathetically.

"Good," he said. "Because I don't think I'm going to move my muscles ever again." Chuck crossed his legs on the patio and stirred his fruity drink, watching the ice and juice mix and mingle until they seemed practically indistinguishable from one another.

"Did anything in particular prompt this notion, Nathaniel?" Nate continued to lay motionless above the water, reminding Chuck of one of those still-life snapshots where all the people looked like they'd be better off dead. Or possibly a statue, which was generally a terrible metaphor for Nate because Nate was generally so vibrant, so full of life. Chuck had to squint in order to assure himself that Nate was still breathing. He was.

"I ran about twelve miles this morning," Nate informed him, several minutes later. Chuck felt his stomach drop. Nate only ran like that when for some reason or another he couldn't control his emotions. Which could mean only one thing.

"I am so sorry, man," he said, wishing he could say something more.

"'Bout what?" Nate asked, kicking his feet in the water, making the float travel sideways across the pool. Chuck shrugged.

"Serena's a whore, Nate," he said, and meant it. Nate, floating aimlessly on a pool for seven hours? She must have directly rubbed in the salt to the wound of her Dan-betrayal herself. Nate sat up, tipping off the raft with a splashless plop into the shallow end of the pool.

"What does this have to do with Serena?" he asked, genuine curiosity creeping into his voice. "And you never call me Nate. Why did you call me Nate?" Chuck took a long drink from his smoothie before responding.

"She didn't dump you?" Nate dunked his head underneath the water, shaking his in-need-of-a-haircut 'do out of his eyes for the umpteenth time.

"No." He paused, watching Chuck with a surprisingly omniscient eye, considering the fact that it was Nate who was speaking. "Did she tell you she was going to?" Chuck closed his eyes, kicking himself for speaking too soon. He would be 'picking up the pieces of Nate', his ass. Breaking them further, more like.

"No," he said, carefully and slowly, as one might act around a three-year-old with a temper problem. "Not in those words." Nate cursed violently.

"I'm never leaving the pool," he said, jumping back onto the large vinyl float, sending waves of energy across the otherwise empty vacuum of water. "Never."

"That's okay, Nate," Chuck told him, putting down the empty smoothie glass and walking towards the sliding screen door. "Hold on a second, I'll go get my swimsuit."


	26. Cue angsty tumultuous sex, please

A/N: The angst train is pullin' away, guys. Good things happen here.

* * *

Nate could hear Blair on the other end of the phone, shrill and commanding, as per her usual demeanor. He was starting to feel a little lightheaded; this probably had something to do with the sheer multitude of water-induced wrinkles in his skin at the moment.

It probably wasn't healthy to spend that much time partially submerged in water. It also probably wasn't healthy to fall in love with someone who loved someone else, but Nate had apparently gone and done that as well. This made the subject of his health a bit of a moot point.

Although Chuck still seemed concerned. He paced back and forth in front of the couch, cell phone glued to his ear. He seemed visibly relieved when Blair answered the phone. Nate wasn't quite sure why.

"Back begging so soon? I insulted your manhood just this morning." Blair's voice rang loudly throughout the kitchen. Chuck smirked. Nate was certain that Blair would be able to feel the smolder of that smirk through the speaker. He knew he always could.

"It's about Nate," he said, "not your ego." Nate looked up quizzically.

"Okay," Blair reasoned, "I'll be there in about ten." Nate briefly wondered if they were speaking in some sort of code, because as far as he was concerned, things hadn't been explained at all. Chuck smiled triumphantly.

"You'd better bring your swimsuit, sweetheart." Nate thought this was an unfair generalization.

"Hey," he said indignantly, from his spot on the beige leather couch. "That's not fair. I got out of the pool." Chuck, having hung up the phone, sat down beside Nate, a semi-awkward hand resting on his shoulder.

"Do you want dinner? We can play Xbox or something." Nate rolled his eyes and shrugged away from Chuck's grip. This was getting ridiculous.

"This is stupid," he said. "I'm going home." Chuck moved as if to protest this. "Seriously. I'm not made of glass, Chuck. I'll be fine."

But just as Nate opened the front door to leave, he met Serena on her way in. His heart skipped about three beats in a row.

"Nate!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arms in surprise. "You're here!" She then threw her arms around him in a sort of friendly bear hug. Nate, honestly, could not think of a single thing to say. (In his defense, this may have partially related to the fact that his brain went sort-of, "fthgjake frejiogerho29483djrs," around Serena. But he wasn't sure he would have been able to conceive niceties barring that mental reduction) "I've been calling you all day."

She released Nate. He took the opportunity to push the hair away from his eyes. It really was getting too long for practicality.

"Oh yeah," he said, suddenly remembering. "I left my phone at home when I went running this morning. 'S still there." Serena looked as excited as Nate had felt the first time he'd been tall enough for all the rollercoasters at Six Flags.

Nate was more confused than ever before.

"What are you doing here?" Chuck asked menacingly. Serena rolled her eyes.

"I live here, Chuck." Nate laughed.

"She does," he said.

"Nate!" Serena shrieked again, with more emphasis. "I'm so sorry." Chuck growled protectively from the couch.

"As you'd better be, sister." Serena shot him a glare.

"Sorry for what?" Nate asked. Honestly, everyone was overreacting. She hadn't even officially dumped him yet.

"For being so distant this week," she explained, running her fingers through his hair. Nate glanced at Chuck, who looked just as if not more surprised than Nate felt. Good. He never liked being the only one out of the loop. "And I ruined your special night for us! But it's okay now, I'll make it up to you, I promise!"

"Where's Dan?" Chuck's voice echoed menacingly from the corner. Serena glared at him again.

"He went home," she said, doubt crossing her face for the first time since entering the room. Nate carefully held her wrist, gently moving it away from his face.

"When are you leaving?" he asked, quietly. Serena looked up and smiled.

"Whenever you are, I guess." She leaned in and kissed him. Nate dropped her wrist. Chuck looked at Serena. Serena looked at Nate. Nate looked at the ceiling. Serena looked at Chuck. Chuck looked at Nate. Nate looked at Serena.

"Wait," he said, "what?"


	27. Comment dit on 'awkward'

Nate ambled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes wearily and wearing naught but boxers. He plopped himself down onto a stool.

"Tomorrow is my birthday," he announced, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"That's exciting," Lily Bass replied from across the table, eyes never once straying from the Blackberry in her hand. "Would you like anything for breakfast, Nathaniel? Waffles?" Nate shook his head, hair falling down from a precarious perch behind his ear over his eyes, again.

"No thank you, Mrs. Van der Wo—Mrs. Bass," he said, "I'm not hungry." Lily smiled at him fondly.

"You really do need a haircut," she told him, reaching over the glass dining table in order to better survey his lack of polish, "I could make you an appointment now, if you'd like. Eric's stylist does wonders, you know." Nate cringed inwardly.

"No, I'm okay, thank you," he said, flashing Mrs. Bass his classic golden smile. Lily stood up from her fruit-and-yogurt glass, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

"Well, I hope you and Charles had fun with your sleepover last night." Nate smiled politely. "And with you and Serena together, it's almost like you're a part of the family. You make a lovely couple." Lily walked towards the stairs, pausing at the start of the railing to turn back towards Nate.

"Although," she said, frowning slightly at his state of undress, "We generally prefer everyone to wear actual clothing in this family."


	28. Happily ever after at least for now

A/N: I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE LIKE CHAPTER FOUR GUYS. BE EXCITED.

* * *

Things panned out differently the second (err, technically the fifth) time around. No one was cheating. No one was drunk.

They were actually together. As a couple. For real. So it didn't seem so low and dirty. (Only one of the two would be even briefly concerned about seeming low and dirty.)

Also, the addition of a bed was nice. Less butt-chafing-against-the-door-handle-please, less oops-did-you-just-get-that-on-the-leather-interior-ew, less excuse-me-but-what-about-your-driver-up-there.

More clichés, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. (He'd actually put on _mood music_, oh God.)

The lack of a burning scotch throat and burning guilt the morning after was a definite plus as well.

She actually felt self-conscious, to be honest. It was an odd feeling, in relation to him. Not like being naked helped.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, mouth just touching the soft spot directly below her ear where the cartilage and jawbone melded together to create a hollow, taut cavern. It tickled. "I love you." Her stomach flipped. She ran her hands across his back, fingernails grazing his lower back.

He shivered.

"You don't have to say that," she replied. "You're the one that swiped my V-card, remember." Ignoring her protests, he grasped her wrist, hitting about three pulse points. She kissed his shoulder. Laughing at the erratic, pounding pulse in her veins, he closed his eyes and lowered himself on top of her body.

"I love you," he repeated, moving in for what her ninth-grade health teacher had referred to solely as "The Kill." Which reminded her, actually…

Blair elbowed him in the stomach, hard.

"Ow, what the hell?"

Chuck would whine in this situation.

"Oh, no you don't," she told him. "Condom first, Romeo."


	29. The grand finale

A/N: As the chapter title would suggest, this is the final installment in this epic (alright, maybe not epic, I flatter myself) series-of-drabbles-that-somewhere-along-the-line-turned-into-a-real-story. I feel all nostalgic and sniffly. I will miss writing this. Twenty-nine chapters is a lot of chapters, guys.

I really hope you all enjoyed reading this a fraction of the amount that I enjoyed writing it. I'm so thankful for all your reviews and feedback, they really make my day sometimes. /cheesiness

* * *

His friends had been throwing him surprise birthday parties on the seventeenth of August every year since he turned nine, but genuine shock at the gesture never failed to register with Nate.

Not just the gesture was grand, however. Blair plus Chuck plus Serena plus an intense desire to please (and who wouldn't have an intense desire to please Nate, after all?) made for the kind of nights that later turned into Manhattan urban legends.

But honestly, who could blame him for doubting? After all, they'd already thrown him eight life-changing shindigs. What were the odds they liked him enough plan yet another?

Pretty solid, apparently.

"Wow," Nate said, looking around at all the people gathered in the Bass' backyard—about half of whom he'd never seen in his life, "This is a really big party." Blair grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Of course it is," she said, as if Nate were the densest creature to ever walk the earth. Blair smiled at him infectiously. "Just wait until you see the cake." But Nate was already distracted by a tall, skinny man-figure holding a guitar and a microphone about thirty feet away.

Nate gasped. "Holy shit!" Blair glanced up, her smile growing even wider. "You got the Virgins?" he asked, voice cracking audibly in, well, awe. She waved her hand dismissively.

"Chuck's idea," she told him. The comment fell on deaf ears, as Nate had already begun to wander in the direction of his third-favorite band on the entire planet. On stage! In Chuck's backyard! For _his_ birthday!!

!!

Life can be rather surreal at times when you're Nate Archibald.

"Happy nineteenth birthday, Nathan!" yelled a gorgeous bikini-clad redhead as she brushed past him.

"You're not Nathan." The coy voice came in from somewhere around his left ear.

Serena!

Nate whirled around and grabbed her waist, pulling her in close by his side.

"Hi," he breathed, and pointed, grinning maniacally, at the stage.

"You're not nineteen, either, but I got you a present anyways," Serena informed him, leaning in for a kiss. Nate willingly obliged.

"I'm seventeen," he said, and then, "wow, that's really old."

"You're the youngest of us all, Natie." Serena reached up and pinched his cheek playfully. "Stop complaining."

Nate couldn't seem to force his mouth into not smiling. The Virgins called him up onto the stage, and he brought a sharpie. They signed his stomach. It was awesome. (Like he needed to _tell_ people that.)

Even Vanessa came to his party, sitting at the makeshift bar, chatting with Is and a severely tipsy Penelope. All three of them wished him a happy birthday! Vanessa! (Is and Penelope he saw all the time, but _hanging out_ with Vanessa?) Maybe his party was forging friendships! Okay, maybe they were all just more intoxicated then he'd originally guessed. Not the point.

He sat on the edge of the pool with Chuck, passing a joint back and forth. They marveled together at how trusty the floating blue raft in the water was—how could something so transparent and vinyl hold so many drunken teenagers at once?

And then Serena was back, with a tiny black velvet bag tied with a clear blue ribbon. Nate briefly wondered if she'd gotten him jewelry of some sort. (Blair had, once. It was odd.)

She'd bought him a boat. The bag just held the keys. (No big deal, just a boat.)

It was the best party Nate had ever seen.

And when he blew out the candles at midnight, he squeezed his eyes shut and made just one wish.

That it would stay like this forever. All of it.

* * *

A/N: Awwwwhh, I'm so legitimately sad for this to be over! (My emotions are sort-of how I imagine it feels to send a child off into the world, or something. Wow, I'm lame.)


End file.
